Duncan Sandy Frances - Never Sleep With a Suspect on Gabriola Island

Never Sleep with a Suspect
ON GABRIOLA ISLAND

Sandy Frances Duncan & George Szanto

For Marilyn and Ian, Phyllis and Vic,
and all the NDWs
for your ongoing support.

ROSE MARCHAND PRESSED the remote button on the arm of her chair, and the door to the deck swung slowly open. She stared up at the bluing cloud-free sky. After a night of light rain it was a perfect morning. The world washed clean.

She pushed on the chairs guide wheels and propelled herself forward, onto the low, narrow deck. Behind her the door closed with a small squeak. Why did it squeak on closing but not on opening? Shed get Roy to oil it. She rolled over to the ramp and let herself glide down. Though the day should warm nicely, now at 6:00 am it was cool.

She gripped the wheels and started her roll along the circular asphalt drive. Another thrust, another, another, and she was rolling faster than most people jog. Great to be alive.

The air past her face felt soft, and now she could see the sun rising beyond the tall, straight firs and the angled arbutus trees. Their home and the Gallery backed to the ocean. In front, a long avenue led from the circle drive to the road. The circle served as her track, about thirty metres in diameter. Artemus had designed it well.

She pushed hard, past the path to Tams cabin, eyes on asphalt ahead. But her peripheral vision noted a dark bundle to her left. She sped up, she needed to get her heart rate higher. Back to the house, second circle. Arm and shoulder muscles now fully awake. Around again. She slowed a little, glancing ahead to spot the bundle.

There, on the grass. A dump of clothes. Or a person? Flat on his face, dirty jeans, faded shirt, no cap. Damn! She had to break her rhythm, deal with whoever lay there, some drunk? Here? Drunks didnt casually pass out on the Gallery grounds. She guided her chair toward the persons workboots. Hey! You!

No movement. She rolled by him and leaned toward his head. Oh dear god! Roy! Roy!

She rolled her left wheel against his side. No response. Oh god, was he dead? She reached down to check for breathing. None obvious. Damn it to hell, she thought. And then she thought, Call the police. At last she thought, Poor Roy.

It would not be a first-rate day.

KYRA RACHEL STEERED her Chevy Tracker behind the row of cars moving down the Horseshoe Bay parking lot and onto the 10:30 ferry to Vancouver Island. Ten minutes late loading, but shed still be in Nanaimo in good time. On board, she turned off the engine, locked the doors, walked up three flights of stairs to the front lounge and found a chair by the windows. A ferry was a place out of regular life, good for reading, people-watching and, despite the quality of ferry food, eating. No. In two hours shed be lunching with Noel, and besides, her father had just made her finish a stack of his superb blueberry pancakes.

Kyra stared up Howe Sound. White-topped mountains shone in the sunlight. Dulcet tones on the loudspeaker: Welcome aboard BC Ferries. Our sailing time to Nanaimo will be one hour and thirty-five minutes. The ferry departed. Kyra stared out. An immense green mound hove into viewBowen, the island of her childhood. Early autumn maples dotted its flanks with a golden tinge. She remembered it as, mostly, a satisfying place. But way more houses there now than then.

Slowly Bowen Islands western tip slid behind the ferry. Go outside? Maybe later. When shed smoked shed headed outside even before finding a seat. Even after six months the desire for a hit of smoke in throat and lungs often consumed her. Now she breathed deeply, smokelessly. The lounge had filled with people, the general noise level increased. Get coffee? She continued to sit, deeply inhaling no-smoke.

Before boarding, shed called Noel in Nanaimo. The answering machine had come on. She figured hed be monitoring his calls. Noel, I know youre home. No response. Im on the next ferry from Horseshoe Bay. Howd you like to go out for lunch.

Noel had picked up. I dont want to go out for lunch. Im fine as I am.

The convention is first you say Hello. Hello, Noel.

Hello, Kyra.

Anyway, Im not fine. Its the three-month anniversary.

So?

So well go for lunch at the Acme.

I dont want to go to the Acme.

Yes you do. Well toast Brendan.

Dont be so bossy.

Not bossy. Efficient.

Silence. Then, resignedly, Well see when you get here.

Youll be fine. She closed her phone. Three months since Brendans death. Noel still needed time for his mourning to wind down. Had she herself fully dealt with Brendans death?

Her own mourning, she realized, was for the on-top-of-everything Noel, the funny Noel shed known for years. Then three-plus years ago, when Brendans company moved him to Nanaimo, Noels deflation began, tiny bit by little bit. Could Noel, a first-rate investigative reporter for the Vancouver Sun, still do the job from Nanaimo? Sure, both he and Brendan agreed. But the real answer was, No.

In the womens room, Kyra washed her hands and stared in the mirror. Lipstick needed repair. She unclipped her hair. Curly dark brown wisps tickled her neck. She dragged a comb through the mass and clipped it back in place. She felt torn about how to be with Noelassertive as just now, or something gentler? Shed not seen him since the funeral but theyd e-mailed three-four times a week, and spoken on the phone. When Brendan was still alive Noel was at least thereangry, caring, ironic, devoted, whatever. But these last three months... Shake him out of this withered sense of himself hed allowed to take him over. She had to.

Her brows looked thick. She wet a finger and stroked them. The weight shed added since separating from Sam made her chin bulge. How could she not have noticed that? She sucked in her gut, thrust out her chest and pulled herself up to her full five foot six and three-quarter inches. Yep, Noel needed a little tough affection.

Ten minutes before Kyras call, Noel had folded the last letter, addressed and stamped the final envelope, and set it on the small pile. He leaned back and gazed at the framed photo of Brendan. Hed stood it on the dining table a month ago, when he began writing wearying thanks-for-your-condolences notes. The picture was a head and shoulders portrait taken a year before Brendan had been diagnosed: a man in his prime, sculpted features, straight black hair greying at the temples, lips curved up as if smiling at a joke only heand maybe Noelknew. Lips that now, achingly, Noel could feel on his own. He pulled his gaze away. A month of replies, the four piles to mail each over ten inches high. Now what was he supposed to do? Today, tomorrow, the next day?

Brendan had had a wide range of friends; so much sympathy. Damn you, Brendan, who gave you permission to die?

Getting up, Noel took the envelopes to the hall table. He thought: wallet, keys, shoes The phone rang. He shuddered, a mechanical reaction by now. At least it wasnt three in the morning. Still, he didnt want to answer. He easily might be not heregone out the door two minutes ago to mail the thank-you notes. Anyway, he couldnt locate the receiver, damn cordless phones. The ringing stopped, the answering machine cut in. Kyras voice. Talk to her? He glanced around the living room. Hard to locate a receiver thats stopped ringing. She was inviting him to lunch. He looked at his watch: nearly ten. He lifted yesterdays newspaper from the coffee table. Aha. He picked up the phone. Listened, answered. Smiled, relieved she couldnt see him.